


get on your hands and knees (and pray for us)

by CherrySoos



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Connor (Detroit: Become Human) Whump, Connor Needs A Hug, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:15:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28045266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CherrySoos/pseuds/CherrySoos
Summary: A mounting compendium of Connor’s slow march towards finding forgiveness.
Relationships: Hank Anderson & Connor
Comments: 1
Kudos: 31





	get on your hands and knees (and pray for us)

**Author's Note:**

> So, I'm like 2 years late to the party; I got into DBH during quarantine and it's been the only thing my brain could focus on for the past few months. This is my first fic for the fandom so I'm getting used to writing in Connor's voice, I suppose. You can think of the format of this fic as a loose form of 5+1.
> 
> Title is from “Lone Star” by The Front Bottoms

Connor feels  _ exhausted _ .

He feels worn and paper thin as he’s sat sideways and slumped on his good side into the passenger seat of Hank’s Oldsmobile. His left arm is taken out of its jacket sleeve and cradled in his lap—the skin projection is turned off, exposing the gnarled, white plasteel where two gaping bullet wounds in his bicep and forearm sluggishly leak thirium and spark every few seconds.

(He already refused medical attention. He doesn’t want to deal with a technician poking and prodding at his parts or asking questions. Not when he feels fragile enough to shatter. He doesn’t trust his mouth to provide anything but the wretched scream that threatens to tear free from his throat.)

A glaring, red error report hovers in his field of view.

**[** **_BIOCOMPONENT #9405k (Left Arm) DAMAGED; REPAIRS REQUIRED._ ** **]**

Connor dismisses the message. He’s more than well aware, thank you very much.

Weariness sinks deep beneath his plasteel casing, it penetrates and weighs down the wires and cables that compose his synthetic muscles.

It’s a foreign feeling, exhaustion. Machines don’t experience fatigue; they don’t feel pain, or anger, or horror, or remorse. As a matter of fact, they don’t  _ feel _ at all. 

But Connor isn’t a machine anymore, so he  _ does _ feel. 

And he feels all of it.

Markus had gotten in touch with him some few weeks ago about the disappearance of five androids.

“Please find them, Connor,” the Jericho leader urged quietly, his voice taught with worry.

“You can count on me, Markus.” he’d said in reply.

And he did find them, but oh, was it a gruesome sight.

The evidence had led to a derelict house not far off from Jericho’s newest outreach center. It’s basement housed a red ice ring where they found the bodies of the androids strewn throughout the room, harvested for their thirium. They found one ST300 laid out across a table with one of the dealers still wrist deep in her abdominal cavity.

The following altercation left Connor with two bullet holes through his left arm.

As the man fled, other officers followed in pursuit. Connor, however, rushed to the android’s side as he contacted Android Emergency Services.

“What’s your name?” he asked, as he reached within the thirium-flooded cavity to stem the bleeding.

The ST300 rasped a static-filled, “Jenny.” Blue blood bubbled and poured from her lips, spurring Connor on to work faster.

“Jenny,” he’d parroted, “My name is Connor. I’m an Android sent by the DPD. I’m here to help, okay?” The girl lifted her hand and grasped at the sleeve of Connor’s jacket.

“I’m scared,” Jenny gurgled weakly, tears spilling from her eyes. At that, Connor’s chest clenched. 

“I’m going to get you out of here, Jenny,” he said resolutely.

But he didn’t. He did all he could, but he watched as the light of the girl’s LED stuttered out into a dull gray. The feeble grasp of her hand slipped from his sleeve and landed back on the table, slack. The sound rings through the room with a harrowing sense of finality.

Something cold, and awful, and horrifyingly all consuming settled into his chest—it took a few moments for him to realize that what he was feeling was  _ guilt _ .

A tap to his shoulder rouses him from his reverie, and pulls him back into the present.

Connor catches Hank casting him a worried glance from the corner of his eye.

“How you feelin’, son?” Hank asks.

“I’m alright, Lieutenant,” Connor states after a beat. The Lieutenant is less than convinced, his expression dropping into a hard frown and his arms crossing tightly over his chest. He doesn’t continue with that thought, however, which Connor is thankful for. 

“Y’sure you don’t wanna head to the Android Care Facility and get your arm checked out?” Hank asks instead.

Connor bobs his head once, breathing out a short and strained reply.

“I’m sure.” 

“Not even Jericho?”

Connor flinches at that.

“I’d rather not.”

He’s not ready to face Markus, to tell him that he’d failed.

There’s a moment of pause before Hank sighs heavily through his nose. He uncrosses his arms and sticks his hands in his pockets as he gives Connor a weary top-down scan. “Your arm looks like swiss fuckin’ cheese, kid.”

“I know.”

“You should get it  _ fixed _ .”

“I  _ know _ .”

“Your friends’ll be worried.”

Connor sets his jaw and drops his gaze down to the asphalt.

“…I know,” he replies quietly.

With another sigh, Hank mutters a short  _ fine _ before heading to the trunk and rustling around in it for a few moments. He saunters back to Connor’s side, dropping a bag of thirium into his lap, away from the injured arm, and a small blue kit down on the pavement.

“Knew this fuckin’ android first aid kit would come in handy,” Hank mumbles as he takes a knee and opens the kit. He pulls out a few white strips that Connor recognizes as thermoplastic (“android band-aids” as Hank called them once “for android boo-boos”) and a heat pack. 

“Lemme see that arm,” the lieutenant says, gingerly taking the plasteel appendage, “And start sippin’ on that thirium—I better see that blood bag empty.” Connor obediently unscrews the cap with his good hand and starts sipping from it while Hank patches the bullet holes and melts the thermoplastic onto his skin with the heat pack. No words are exchanged as Hank works and Connor finishes the bag. When the last hole is sufficiently sealed, the lieutenant pushes himself back to standing height, cursing and groaning about his “old man knees” as he does. He gives Connor another once over before laying a firm, but kind hand on his shoulder.

“Listen, son,” Hank starts, “You’ve been through a hell of a night. You already said you don’t wanna see a technician for that arm, and I’m not gonna force it. So, what do you wanna do from here?”

Connor opens his mouth, but it takes a few seconds for his lips to form an answer.

“I just…I just want to go home, Hank,” he croaks, “Please…” 

His friend gives a resigned nod. “Alright, son,” Hank says, patting Connor’s shoulder, “Get yer legs in the car, let’s get the fuck outta here.”

It takes some effort for Connor to bring his legs into the car and sit in the seat properly. Hank is nice enough to shut the door for him before rounding the front of the car and settling into the driver’s seat.

They’re ten minutes into the drive back to Hank’s house when the lieutenant speaks again.

“You know what happened tonight isn’t your fault, right?” It’s said with a rumbling softness that's so unlike the man’s usual gruff tone. Connor briefly catches the Lieutenant’s eyes glancing at him in sympathy.

“I wasn’t fast enough,” Connor breathes. His jaw clenches slightly at the admission.

“It was out of your control.”

“I am the most advanced android Cyberlife has ever created,” he states, something akin to bitterness in his voice, “I can run several  _ billion _ operations per second. I could have saved that girl. I  _ should have  _ saved that girl.”

“You did the best that you could.”

“It wasn’t  _ good enough _ . That ST300  _ died _ because of me.”

“ _ No _ . No, she did  _ not _ , Connor,” The Lieutenant refutes heatedly, “Don’t you fuckin’  _ dare _ put that on yourself.”

That strikes a chord in him, hard and deep.

Connor bites his tongue and keeps his gaze out the windshield.

Hank eyes him again and deflates.

“God, alright, that came out wrong,” he says tiredly, “Listen, son, you’re not responsible for that girl’s death. You’re not responsible for  _ anyone’s _ death tonight,  _ period _ . You hear me?”

An argument sits at the tip of Connor’s tongue, but he lets the words die there.

“Loud and clear, Lieutenant,” he concedes instead. Hank snorts slightly.

“How many times am I gonna have to tell ya not to call me ‘Lieutenant’ when we’re not on the job,” he says.

“You’re going to have to remind me again,” Connor replies. It gets a soft chuckle out of the man.

The tension in the air bleeds away as they ride the rest of the way home in a softer kind of silence.

As Connor surveys his reflection in the car’s side mirror, he catches his eyes and swears  _ I have to do better. I’ll do better. _

He’ll do better.


End file.
